Counter Rhythm
by Tawnya Kisaragi
Summary: Music moves you, makes you, dictates you. But he grounds you, stops you, centers you. And that's why you need him more than air, light, or life. Part two of the "Our Lives After" Universe. Post-game, established relationship, non-graphic sex between men.


Companion piece to "Rhythm" and part of the "Our Lives After" Universe. A link will be coming for what I used as Dave's playlist in the new future. A playlist can be find on my tumblr site under grimreaperchibi.

~Tawnya

* * *

Some nights are just bound for perfection, it seems. Set up was so easy it was almost scary, with people actually willing to help and be useful rather than just get in the way. Everything was up, on, and tested before people really started to show up. The patrons that had already started to slide in were the easy, laid back type, willing to chat and get a mood set up. The kind of people you prefer to have around, that are great to play to, especially when they show up in decent numbers and early on. They have the energy to get a party going, but still have a natural level-headedness that prevents things from getting too crazy. The best part, though, is that they don't tend to slam you with stupid requests. Sorry, but if you want a list of whatever is "hot" on the radio right now (or 10 years ago), you are in the wrong place. The job here is to feature YOUR music and play to THIS crowd, not to some wannabe princess who only knows how to get attention by running around in a bra and mini skirt doing jello shots. Come back when you've gotten some fucking self-respect and a sense of self-worth.

The waitress who's agreed to do drink runs for you is sitting hot already, which means your night really is going to go smoothly. You like this girl. Well, not really a girl. She's pushing towards 30 now, but has the energy to run circles around the lil teeny-bopper cunts who think they're hot shit. She'll be serving drinks and food to almost the entire room throughout the night, barely breaking a sweat, swishing her hips and shoulders to the beat in just the right way to catch the eyes of almost every guy in the room (all without dropping a single thing), and giving them the "not a chance in hell, you're not worth my time" looks that keep them coming back. Something about a challenge, you guess. She's a mean flirt, too. Try to get a glass of water to start off with and she's giving you shit about being a pussy. Start with a whiskey shot and now you're a lush with performance anxiety. All with a smile that could break souls.

Just the kind of lady you can do business with without having to worry about your virtue come the end of the night.

The venue also just got some new house speakers the owner wants you try out. You'll do him this solid because you like the guy, but it's a mixed blessing. If they end up being good quality, you can use them on top of what you brought for the gig and probably get a pretty amazing feel going. If they're shit, then you get to find a good way to ask if he kept the receipt. Luck strikes again, and these are working pretty well. You're now three for three and it's time to start using all that amazing fortune. You get things started kind soft, getting a feel for what the new equipment can handle (sound tests just never seem to cover everything). People are out on the floor almost immediately, digging the slow sway. A few people still on the edges don't look thrilled with what's rolling, but the lights are still on, so fuck them. They'll get their hard grind soon enough; their dicks can remain soft for a bit longer.

You don't remember the lights dimming, or when effect lights kick on. Just your eyes closing and the sound coming through the cans half perched around your head mixing with the sound those speakers are pumping out. The music just seems to flow tonight, bright and hot, and you can feel the fire in your blood starting to burn, making you sweat just a little. You don't remember the floor filling, just suddenly being aware of a roomful of bodies. You don't remember drinking anything, never mind what you may have ordered (something about cherry and sour). You don't remember shifting into a harder beat and almost don't notice when the feel of the room starts to get too strained. Time to calm these lil fuckers down before you all start doing something you regret.

A randomly stupid and silly song (you always keep a few of these on hand) cut-in in just the right fashion kind of starts the crowd out of their haze. You always feel bad doing that, messing up the groove, but part of what gets you jobs that pay as well as this one does is that you do pay attention, and know how to break things up and calm things down before something bad happens. A little randomness breaks the weird feel in the air, and the silliness lightens up a heaviness that settled over the floor. It also gives you a chance to take advantage of the pitcher of water that you swear wasn't there a moment ago (this girl must've taken lessons from Bro, for sure). A call-out to make sure the crowd's attention is where you want it (on you), and back into the groove you go.

It's still fairly early when there's another shift in the air. His presence is always so damn subtle, but you feel it anyway. Can't see him right now, but you know he's there, and probably have since the moment he walked through the door. The waitress is back with another drink, and from the wink she gives you, you know he's at least made it up to the bar. Probably got another cheap rum and coke, like he always does. He does remember you have a fucking tab set up for him, right? And that there are some really great fucking drinks in this world? An argument for another time. You can feel him shifting through the room. He'll hover in the background until the end. Unfortunately, it's really safer that way. The last time he tried to make his way to the stage area before the crowd dispersed almost ended badly. He didn't get hurt, and that's a fucking good thing, because you'd probably had gone ballistic on some asses in a way that not only would've made Bro proud, but left him and his psycho puppet ground into fucking dust on a lava field.

You forget sometimes how much you miss his presence at these events. He misses more than he makes anymore, thanks to that stupidly necessary job of his. But he's here now, and it just slides that last cog into place. Suddenly the music beckons uncontrollably. The fire burns even hotter. You're actually sweating now, but hardly notice. It's impossible to hold still, so you don't try. No more premade mixes tonight. The beat's coming hard and heavy, the sound's flowing from your head to your hands and through the speakers like magic. You don't know if he knows you're playing for him, no way to know, but it's a thing that's happening. He's always brought out the best in you, always made you feel like you can fly even though your feet never leave the ground. That's what you feel now, freedom and precision, weightless eternity, a crashing, living mix of heat and shadow. It's everything you are poured out into the medium. The only reason you don't have a serious hard-on is because you've trained yourself not to. Not good stage etiquette and all, but damned if you don't want him up there, grinding away with you. Then again, if he was, it wouldn't just be good etiquette you were fucking over.

And now the night's complete. You don't realize you played an encore until the calls for "round two" ring out. They must've thought that pause to readjust between sets was it. But you go with it. You'd planned on playing an encore anyway, and it feels like cheating somehow to quit without one, even if you had already unintentionally played one. This had been a good crowd tonight, and good people deserve to be rewarded.

As soon as the speakers cut out, you suddenly feel like the world is trying to crush you. Tired doesn't even begin to describe this sensation. There's all this noise still in the room from people trying to stumble their way back to wherever, but it doesn't compare to the noise still in your head, so it feels slightly like you've gone deaf. In some ways, it's worse than dying. At least if you die, it's over, done with, blackout. But you don't get that; you still have to function. Tear down is a pain and you almost forget which speakers are yours. He finally makes it up to the front and immediately takes charge. Does he even know he's doing that? You doubt it. It looks like he's just wrapping cords, but he's unconsciously nodding directions to the guys helping out, telling them what to take when and how to get it loaded up. It's kinda ridiculous how easily he slips into the roll, friendleader, palhoncho, or whatever god awful term he's come up with recently, but you're not going to argue with it now. You need all the help you can get. He keeps shifting uncomfortably and shooting glances at you out of the corner of his eye as he goes. It's so fucking cute it's not even fair. You know he wants to just launch himself at you, but he won't. Not here, not now. Apparently the show got to him, too. It gives you a little shiver to realize that, but you're still too tired to really deal with it right now.

The drive home is mostly a blank. He doesn't talk, just holds your hand gently. His hand is so cool against yours. Not ice cold, just cool. It feels good, grounds you, helps the noise keeping you tense leak out. He's still eyeing you. Really, too damn cute. You get sort of caught up in the thought that you don't even realize you're back at your place until that hand has to pull out of your lax grip to shift gears. He parks the car (he's getting better at backing in, he used to really suck) and automatically starts hauling all the stuff he just put in there up to your apartment, letting you get out at your own pace. You could almost sleep curled up in the car, seatbelt on and all, but your legs are already starting to lock up. Better move while you still can.

The cold air is almost a slap in the face, and wakes you up quite nicely. A stretch, a pop, and you feel like you lost two rounds in a strife, but it still feels good. He's back for the next round of stuff, and since you're up and kind of functioning (he makes a smart remark about being old and you flip him off) you two tackle the bigger and more awkward stuff. Fucking stairs, man. Whose brilliant idea was it to live so far up? Shit, you think it was yours…though it gives you a good reason to notice a few other things.

Like the fact he's gotten stronger. Well, he's always been strong, but in that quick burst of adrenaline sort of way. Still kind of a skinny thing, and he never did get the height you did, but you notice you haven't been taking as much weight lately. He ditches his jacket in the apartment this time, and sure enough his arms are starting to gain some definition. Going back up with the next set of stuff, you let him go first. Damn. What are the chances you might be able to talk him into a slightly tighter pair of jeans? The next round is mostly cabling. You kind of load him up with the stuff, just because it does show off those shoulders and chest quite nicely. Final round is just miscellaneous cables and a box of small stuff. You go first this time and drop the stuff as soon as you're inside.

All this has been just enough to wake up that longing in you again. You want to touch, taste, feel, and need to badly enough that you jump him just as soon as he's actually all the way into the apartment. He doesn't push back until his back is against the door, surprised and off-balance, but then he's into the kiss full, dropping the cables to wrap his arms around you, pulling you closer somehow. He moans into your mouth and it takes every bit of control to not just take him right there.

You both flounder for a few seconds, awkwardly grinding against each other like hurried teenagers addled by hormones, and then he's found your rhythm. It seems like everything you were feeling tonight most definitely made it to him. The music that's never quite left your blood picks up, flowing in his too before coming back. Hands moving, pulling and pushing. Shirts off. Damn, he has put on some muscle. You want him so bad it hurts right now. But he won't let you speed up just yet. Only pulls you back into the dance with another kiss that makes you think maybe those rum and colas he loves so much actually don't taste that bad. Kick the shoes off. Down and up, trying not to get tangled in the pants as they come off and so happy they're gone, forgotten. You want him in the bedroom, NOW. He steadies you with another kiss, slowing the rhythm but not the intensity, a talent that is uniquely his.

Rules state that you get to be top first, and he allows himself to fall into the bed with only a token resistance (damn flirt). As badly as you want to just fuck him, take him until that secondary blaze under your skin fizzles back out, that's not how this jam is going, so you let the music guide you. It keeps you from getting ahead of yourself, because this isn't just about you and what you want, but the both of you getting what you need from the other. You start with his neck, find that delicious little spot that makes him fall to pieces, and work your way down from there. Just like at the club, you let your hands do what they're meant to do. They know the rhythm. They know the instrument. Why fuck this up with thinking?

He took your glasses off as soon as you started undressing. It's always weird seeing with your normal sight, but he makes it worth it, purring beneath you. You pull him as close as you can and still move inside of him, making him the only thing in your field of vision. His whole body is cool against you, but quickly warming. You can almost see his skin changing as he warms, telling you what areas are being too sensitive and what areas to attack with renewed vigor, until you can't see anything anymore. The heat's back, you're sweating, he's moaning in your ear, and if that isn't the sexiest thing in the world, then obviously the definition needs to be updated.

There's no end, no place where you end and he begins. There's just what you feel and what you feel is his mouth back against yours, lulling that frantic thud back to a steadier pace. The beat's still there, still demanding, still incessant in your head, but not wholly of you anymore, like the trailing end of one song right before it actually joins the next. There's a shift, a seamless interlude that then picks that lonely throb back up. You're back in the rhythm like you never really lost it, but you're no longer the one guiding it. It's pursuing you, instead, and you recognize that now you're the one being played like a finely tuned instrument. Which leads into the all important question of: When did you switch places?

The music guiding this set is all his. Slow, steady, but so fucking intense is maddening. He likes to sit back and watch, though god only knows what he finds so fascinating. You want contact, almost need it because you feel like you're going to fall apart otherwise, so you massage his thighs until his hands tangle with yours, giving you the solidarity you need. Then his eyes lock with yours, and the world falls away. You see everything and nothing. The sweat on his skin, the way his chest is heaving. The music in his blood, the fire in his eyes. There is nothing else. No apartment, no world, no time. Just him pounding that wonderfully intoxicating rhythm into you until neither of you can stand it anymore.

Music moves you, makes you, dictates you. But he grounds you, stops you, centers you. And that's why you need him more than air, light, or life.

You don't really sleep afterwards. The noise in your head has stopped for the time being, letting you concentrate on how good it feels just to have him near. You know he has to get up and go to work soon and damned if you're going to miss this soft cuddling that brings you both back to reality. The need for contact has come back, as if it ever went away, so you pet and stroke what you can reach softly, enjoying the soft sighs that tell you he's not asleep either. Idiot, but your idiot.

Fuck. There's his alarm, crying out from its abandoned isolation somewhere in the living room. God damned motherfucking cocksucking worthless bullshit piece of crap (and shit, now you sound like Vantas). You don't want him to go yet, but he gets out of bed to find his phone and silences the needy alarm. You're tempted to drag him back and finish that kiss he started. Fucking tease. Just…fuck. Coffee. Need coffee. Now.

He finishes his shower and switches with you, making something resembling eggs while you grab a quick shower yourself. It's not a critical for you, since you're just going to be flopping back into bed as soon as he leaves, but it does seem to help keep you awake long enough to get him out the door. He keeps telling you that you don't have to stay up for him, but fair's fair. He doesn't have to come down for a show, never mind help haul shit out and up. It's the least you can do. Even if the eggs are awful.

You just start to settle into bed when you snap back awake. Fuck, did you say it? It's stupid as hell, but you haven't missed it once yet and you don't plan on starting now. You can't remember, so you better text just in case:

**turntechGodhead:** hey i can't remember if i said this  
all i remember is locking the door  
and those vile things you call scrambled eggs  
yuck btw learn how to fry one already  
anyway  
be careful okay  
and i love you

You don't ever hear the reply sound go off, but it's there when you get up later and actually start your day:

**ectoBiologist:** if you don't like my eggs, then don't eat them!  
and i'll be the most careful careful can be.  
it will be me.  
i love you, too.

You smile. Set over. Time to get the next rhythm going.

* * *

Owari


End file.
